


Counting Seconds

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The change is barely noticeable, mere seconds in the eternity they have been together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this training video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkgbN9jWAvs) and [this Pazzolivo moment](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/leapangstily/50857375/1521/1521_original.gif) in particular (they're supposed to be listening Matri's goodbyes here).
> 
> This was supposed to be cute and fluffy, but then it all went downhill and I ended up with this. Hopefully one day I'll write something that's not angst.

_Pazzo’s back. Oh look he’s flung himself to Monto again. No, it’s all good. He always does that. Don’t mind them. Yeah, that’s Pazzolivo for you. Inseparable, those two._  
  
It is such a regular occurrence nowadays that no one cares to mention it. Riccardo and Giampaolo, Giampaolo and Riccardo, attached at the hip. It always has been, notes someone with a long memory.  
  
The topic was briefly touched upon when Giampaolo returned from his injury – off-hand explanations to those unfamiliar with the drill.   
  
A dismissive wave of hand and another  _don’t mind_  when Honda arrived.  
  
Everyone is so busy ignoring their casual touches and playful bickering during training that no one notices when the interaction changes.  
  
Or maybe the change is too subtle to notice.  
  
Riccardo does notice, though, and it is all that matters. He sees past the laughing eyes, past the one arched eyebrow, counts the seconds it takes Giampaolo to break the eye contact – whole four seconds longer than usual. He feels the hand at his hip, slightly firmer than on a normal day, just a fraction of intimacy that should not be there.  
  
He might dismiss it just like their teammates do, except it is not merely an odd occurrence anymore.  
  
“What the hell’s up with you?” he hisses when Giampaolo pokes his sides, presses briefly against his back –  _too close too close!_  
  
“Just marking my territory,” Giampaolo sniggers – his gaze one, two, three seconds longer than necessary – as Riccardo moves away from his reach only to return to his side in the next moment. He can almost feel Giampaolo’s body heat like this.  
  
Matri’s farewells go unheard, Riccardo’s mind too occupied with his infuriating, incomprehensible, irresistible best friend. He barely comes back to his senses enough to hug the striker in return.   
  
Some captain he is.  
  
“You’re a dog now?” he asks, not even bothering to lower his voice. Not like anyone pays them any attention around here. And if they did, they would just shrug it off as  _one of those things_.  
  
“You want me to be?”  
  
“Nah, I’m more of a cat person.” He lets Giampaolo lean on his shoulder, the warm breath playing on his neck. He lingers there, hums a line from some unrecognizable melody, runs his fingers through Riccardo’s hair before he is off to harass Bonera.  
  
Ten seconds too long.  
  
Riccardo is not Giampaolo’s territory. Marking him would mean there is something Giampaolo does not want to share with others. They are not like that. They are just Riccardo and Giampaolo, together since childhood, close to the point of being annoying.  
  
He cannot bring himself to voice his thoughts when Giampaolo jogs up to him during the next drills, eyes glinting with mirth that has always been there. Surely it has?   
  
Three, four, five…  
  
It should not be like this. It has never been like this. It is unfamiliar in a way Riccardo has never felt with Giampaolo – the unchanging, safe, loyal, and yet utterly crazy Giampaolo.  
  
Maybe it is Riccardo who has changed. Maybe he never should have started counting. Maybe he never should have started paying attention. Maybe it is all in his head.  
  
“I miss you,” Giampaolo whispers when they finally head to the dressing rooms, and it does not make any sense because they see each other every day. Hell, they see each other even when there is no football involved.  
  
“I’ll miss you even more when you’re married,” he continues, pulling Riccardo away from their teammates, away from the prying eyes and the cameras waiting outside every window. The smile, the laughter, the mirth is gone, and Riccardo loses count as the eye contact stretches.  
  
This is definitely not normal – and their normal surpasses the other people’s normal by a large margin.  
  
“Had to give it one last shot before…” His voice fades before the end of the sentence. A humourless laugh, a twitch in the corner of his mouth. Tongue darting between the pink lips. “I’m sorry, Ricky.”  
  
Lips on his – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven – and Riccardo loses count long before Giampaolo pulls away hesitantly, disappointed frown blinking back to neutrality too soon to actually register.  
  
Riccardo never returned the kiss.  
  
“Never knew when to give up, huh?” Giampaolo sighs, turns away, returns to the dressing room.  
  
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven seconds, and he is out of Riccardo’s sight.  
  
“Idiot, you’re the one who got married first.”  
  
If no one is there to hear your confession, does it count as one at all?


End file.
